Fall No More
by Ardeth Silvereni
Summary: Janos feels unable to ask Vorador for help during a crisis of faith. Then his fledgling turns up unannounced at the aerie. Set around fifty years before Janos' SR2 appearance, with mild Defiance spoilers.


The Legacy of Kain series and all related characters belong to Eidos Interactive and Crystal Dynamics. This fic started out as a 'what if' scenario, to see Janos really struggling with his lonely duty rather than taking it in his stride. It developed a bit beyond that into an exploration of the relationship between Janos and Vorador, in an era where Vorador is very much his own master.

**Fall No More**  
- by Ardeth Silvereni

Janos clapped his book shut and dropped it onto the table, uninterested. Propping his elbows on the smooth stone surface, he buried his face in his hands with an exasperated sigh, rubbed his tired eyes, then pushed his longish hair back from his forehead. He remained motionless with his palms on his temples for a few minutes, then he exhaled noisily and stood up ungracefully, knocking the book to the floor.

A twinge of guilt briefly suppressed his rather foul mood. He bent to pick the book up, and lightly brushed invisible dirt from the cover. He had probably read it a hundred times; the leather-covered spine was worn thin and the binding threads were starting to break and dangle out from between the pages. He rebuked himself for not treating it better - it had been a faithful companion for centuries. When his current restlessness abated, he would surely seek its comforting familiarity again.

But not yet.

Janos flexed his wings, stretching them out to their fullest as he fought the stiffness of hours spent reading. Or more accurately, hours spent _trying_ to read. His concentration was severely impaired - he had been consciously wrestling with feelings of frustration and doubt for months. As the weeks passed it was getting more and more difficult to find peace. He hadn't slept in the better part of a fortnight, and his blood-thirst was also affected. His appetite fluctuated unpredictably between gluttonous hunger and sickening aversion; recently he could seldom manage a sip. This was not the first time his faith had faltered, but he hoped to God it would be the last, and that God would give him the strength to continue.

He prayed that God would forgive him for this period of weakness.

Janos returned the book to its place on the shelf and walked out onto the balcony. The sun was bright at this hour, especially as its light was reflected back at him from the crisp white snow. There were no footprints in the drifts; no activity in the canyons to observe and distract him. He wondered what Vorador was doing, but decided against troubling his fledgling. A reconciliation was necessary first, and Janos did not have the energy for it. He couldn't cope with the delicate diplomacy of apologizing, while not compromising his viewpoints on the divisive subject of humans. It would not be easy; too much had been said in heated arguments for that.

There was another problem too, assuming they managed to speak on good terms. Vorador would worry unduly at Janos' unkempt, gaunt appearance, and in his current frame of mind, Janos doubted he could refuse the welcoming company of the mansion. It was far too tempting to envision a short stay amongst his own, and Vorador would certainly offer it. He always did.

No. It was his duty to guard the Reaver. And guard it, he would, until his prophesied saviour came to claim it. Or until time ended - whichever happened first. No matter how far he fell, or how much conflict he felt, his conscience would _never_ release him of that burden. Ah, what would the saviour think of Janos if he happened to arrive now, with his half-starved form, uncombed, uncut hair and dull, crumpled robes? It was not very becoming or inspiring, and if _he_ was questioning the beliefs of his people, how could he expect the saviour to do otherwise? It was not impossible that Raziel would need some assistance to complete his great destiny, and Janos would have to provide that.

Janos steadied himself against the balcony's supporting pillar, trying to stop his hands from trembling so much. His mind and body were in turmoil - he was exhausted and aching and so _lost_. How could he ask the saviour to be resolute when he himself was not?

_Merciful God, wise and just, guide me..._

He knew there would be no answer, and he had no right to expect one. He knew his immortal existence was abhorrent, but what option did he have but to live? He was forced to defy the Wheel of Fate by circumstance, not his own will. God surely understood that.

_... I'm tired, God._

That God existed was certain, but that He cared... Janos was less sure about that.

_Blasphemy, Janos._

That ever-present conscience now reprimanded him. It felt wrong wishing his conscience _was_ the voice of God, but even worse was the fear that it _might_ be, and that he had transgressed again. In his mind, those chiding thoughts often took on the timbre of the words he had heard in the Citadel, so many centuries ago.

_So tired..._

Once Janos knew he had fulfilled his role - once Raziel was armed to destroy the Hylden champion - then perhaps he could seek the release of death. But would that be enough to redeem him in God's eyes, after so many stolen centuries? Would suicide bring absolution, as so many of his people had hoped? That was the crux of the dilemma and, as Janos recalled, the Hyldens' horrific deathblow - the Blood Curse - had effectively split the Vampire society in two. On one side were those who sought to appease God immediately by taking their own lives. On the other side were the individuals like himself, who clung to the last request of their now-silent God like a sacred talisman; to expel the unholy Hylden from the land, and ensure they never returned. No one knew which would be the greater sin: Immortality or allowing the Hylden to ultimately triumph over them.

Having chosen his path, he'd be _damned_ if he abandoned it now.

Janos laughed weakly at the terrible pun, his unused voice sounding hollow and forced to his ears. There was nothing amusing about it really, but just as humour could sometimes help humans, it drew him back from the precipice of despair. It also coaxed him back from the balcony's edge. Unconsciously, preoccupied in contemplation, he had stepped closer to it than was sensible. Although the weather was bitterly cold, the lake had not yet frozen over, and he didn't trust his wings to catch him if he lost his balance. If Janos chose to die there eventually, he would prefer to dive into the water elegantly and precisely, rather than accidentally and clumsily toppling into the depths. He had that much vanity, at least.

Janos closed his eyes and leaned against the balcony pillar again, allowing himself to slide down it into an uncomfortable crouch. Initially, he didn't care that the action grazed his wings, wrenching out feathers, but eventually he pulled them forward so his wings enclosed him like a large black cocoon.

Perched in that position, just sheltered inside the library, he dreamed lucidly for a while, but did not rest. In the sky, heavy clouds started to gather, and the air chilled.

* * *

That was how Vorador found him in the early evening, as the first hailstones cracked against the exterior of the retreat.

"Sire?"

Concerned and curious, Vorador dropped to one knee beside Janos' huddled form and gently touched the soft arch of one wing. It spasmed slightly at the contact. "Sire?" He ventured again, more insistently, and this time the wings separated slowly. Janos tilted his head forward, and shook it a little to clear his stupor. When he finally looked at Vorador, he seemed surprised to see him.

That in itself was not strange - as Vorador did not often visit the aerie - however Janos' demeanor was. He was disheveled - Vorador had never seen him looking so wan and frail. The younger vampire was greatly disturbed by it, although he was determined not to let it show. Not yet. Janos also appeared to be regarding his fledgling with a mixture of acute embarrassment, shame and heartfelt joy. Another rarity; it was unusual for the Ancient to reveal his emotions so plainly in his expression. It was so different from last time they had met. While Janos had stopped short of saying _never darken my balcony again_, or words to that effect, they had parted badly. Janos had actually been _angry_, in his characteristically understated way. It was their usual disagreement about humans that had caused it, but now it seemed Vorador had been proved right in the matter after all.

"So it is true, what they say," he commented, in a lofty tone. "And _still_ you would defend them?" The words sounded harsh, and more accusing than he intended to them be. He needed to say _I told you so_, but how could he derive satisfaction from his victory, when being right meant seeing Janos like this? The apprentice in him screamed to forget his grudges and abandon this course of petty point-scoring. The apprentice hoped desperately that Janos' expression meant he was forgiven, and if not, he would plead for it. The apprentice wanted to be told everything was alright...

But Vorador was no longer Janos' apprentice, and the decadent vampire he had become would not give in as easily as the young man did back then.

Janos turned away from Vorador's scrutinizing gaze. "I do not understand." He said quietly.

"You have doubtless heard of this new order, these 'Sarafan' dogs the Circle have unleashed against us? They say that as they cut us down, they injure you. Just as destroying you will destroy us."

"No. That is not true. A story, a myth... to inspire _faith_. They are not to blame for this..."

Vorador had expected that answer, but not the wistfulness of the reply. He guessed it was the product of pity, or more disgusting: _admiration_ for the mortal herd. So, nothing had really changed from last time then, despite his first impressions, and the stalemate carried on. Of course the rumours were fairytales; Janos had been physically unaffected by the uprising of Moebius and Mortanius, and the countless deaths their historic revolt brought. But Vorador hated hearing it. With that truth, Janos was continuing to deny the humans' crimes. He was continuing to deflect accountability away from them. Bitterness rose like bile in Vorador's throat.

"Then what _is_ the cause of this, Sire?" He asked, indicating Janos' posture. "Surely you have not been brooding over our falling out?"

What a petulant, childish thing to say.

* * *

Janos cringed at the barely-concealed charge of emotional blackmail. _This_ was why he had not called upon his fledgling for help in this dark time. To anyone, to _Vorador_, it would seem like the Ancient was trying to force his hand to make him stay, when nothing was further from the truth. "Leave me, Vorador." He said simply. "Go back to the mansion. Your children need you." With an immense exertion, he levered himself to stand, and slowly wandered back into the library. It was an obvious dismissal. Janos didn't even look back. If the other still remained, it was no fault of his, unless longing alone made it so.

"And you don't?"

"No." Janos denied it with a whisper. Sensing his fledgling's eyes were fixed upon him, he tried again, more firmly. "No. I do not."

"_Liar._" Vorador strode into the library, stopping slightly behind Janos to his right. "Look at yourself. I see why they picked you to guard that infernal sword. You're the most stubborn creature alive." He made an offhanded gesture. "Well stay and rot with it for all I care. I wish I'd never made the damned thing."

Janos smiled despite himself. "Now who's lying?" he said, with a wry glance. He remembered all too vividly the pride Vorador had felt over the craftsmanship of the Reaver blade. And well he might - it had taken no small amount of skill and struggle. The rare metals had been notoriously hard to work with, yet he had prevailed. "You are equally as stubborn as me." He added. "I fear it is the one trait of mine you have inherited."

"I certainly haven't acquired your blindness to the world. Nor can I muster the detachment from our kin that you appear to find effortless."

Janos frowned, then sighed sadly when he realized Vorador had no intention of letting their past disputes drop. And to think he had hoped for comfort, and had actually been _thankful_ to see Vorador there as he woke.

_I'm tired..._

"I am not blind to it." He said, his wings sagging. "And detachment is not easy. But both are necessary."

"Because of the Reaver?" Vorador sneered. "It is a curious thing, that in guarding this 'weapon of our salvation', you have no interest our race's survival. There will be none of us left to see the day it delivers! But will you still rejoice, I wonder, knowing you kept your faith?"

_Kept my faith..._

The words pierced Janos like a spear. How could Vorador know him so well, yet entirely misunderstand him? It felt like his fledgling had been the one brooding, planning this well constructed barrage of insults and twisted logic to assault him with.

_So tired..._

"Is that the only reason you are here?" Janos asked, holding his palms upwards in supplication. "To torment me?" He let his hands drop to his sides, and turned to face Vorador directly. "The fires of loathing demand constant feeding." he said, slowly reaching out to touch Vorador's shoulder. "Do you not feel them burning you, consuming your soul, while leaving your enemies unharmed?"

* * *

Vorador pulled away sharply from Janos' attempted embrace.

"You bastard," he said. "Who are you to preach to me?"

"Vorador, I - "

"You sit up here in your ivory tower - "

"I _never_ meant to - "

"Understanding _nothing_ - " Vorador spat.

Seeing that Janos was starting to break away from the arguement, Vorador's rage increased. It always played out like this. Well, _not this time_. This needed to resolved _now_, not deferred to another occasion. That was why he had come to the aerie, wasn't it? There had been too many years of half-loving, half-despising Janos between their fights, and he wouldn't endure it any longer. It had to be one or the other, and unable to choose for himself, he would do whatever he had to to provoke the decision from his sire.

One or the other.

* * *

_I never meant to trivialize your suffering._

_I never meant to hurt you._

_I never meant to make you an abomination like me._

There was so much Janos had to apologize for. But he couldn't. Not now, _not now_.

A wave of nausea swept over him, and dizzily he tried to leave. He had to avoid this confrontation until he was stronger, until he could think clearly, but Vorador grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

"Don't you _dare_ ignore me, _Sire_." Their faces only inches apart now, Vorador growled through gritted teeth. "You owe me this! Why do you favour _them over us?_"

Janos clutched at words but the reply wouldn't come, only a stream of panicked thoughts.

_I owe you more than I can ever repay..._

_I owe you salvation._

_I owe you rebirth._

"Look at me and tell me!" Vorador shouted at him.

_Forgive me..._

* * *

A blast of telekinetic energy threw Vorador twelve feet across the room. He skidded to a stop on the balcony, immediately chastened. Had Janos been well, there was no doubt the shove would have pushed him over the edge, and into the water below. Dumbfounded, he watched as the Ancient collapsed to his knees, shaking and sobbing.

Vorador had aimed to provoke a reaction. He never dreamed it would be this.

Slowly and cautiously, he stood up, rubbing the back of his neck, and approached Janos. He sensed the danger had passed - the danger he hadn't even seen coming. Guiltily, he acknowledged again how weak and vulnerable Janos looked. Why hadn't he paid more attention to how ill the Ancient was? His fury evaporated.

"Sire?" He whispered. Like on the balcony earlier, Vorador crouched beside his maker. Unlike then, he did not attempt to touch him. He didn't have the nerve to.

"Sire... Janos?"

"Because I envy them..." The words were choked, and barely audible. "I do not favour them over you. I envy them."

Vorador was shocked by the admission. He knew, had circumstances been different, he would have scoffed and laughed his disbelief. What was there to envy about the brutish, cruel and stupid humans? They lived, did unspeakable things to each other, then perished. Janos was beautiful, powerful and intelligent. It made no sense.

"Why?" He asked.

Nearly a minute passed, with Vorador's question left hanging in the air. Then Janos lifted his head, gradually calming with each unsteady breath he forced. He met Vorador's worried stare with listless resignation.

"Because they can die."

* * *

Vorador hadn't ever _really_ understood the philosophy of the Wheel of Fate, or accepted it as fact. However, he listened carefully as Janos explained it to him now at length, evoking memories of times long past. Vorador vaguely remembered being mortal, sitting beside an open fire as Janos spun stories of historic battles, and reassured him that the end of the Hylden war was near. Now a master himself, their relationship could never be as it was then, but elements of it, the affection at least, could remain strong if it was allowed to.

They both wanted that.

The hail had turned into a brief raging storm. Vorador was content to use it as an excuse to stay, even as Janos told him half-heartedly to go home; he claimed he was fine now. Vorador lit the kindling in the hearth and let its crackling obscure the cold noise of the rain and wind. He certainly appreciated the extra warmth, and it seemed Janos did too. The tension started to ease from his posture, and he reclined deeper into the cushions they had strewn over the floor. For the first time in decades they just _talked_, and enjoyed each other's company in the firelight.

"The saviour _will_ come, Sire." Vorador said, handing a goblet of blood to Janos - Vorador's own for its potency. He watched to ensure the Ancient drained it, and the faintest flush in Janos' cheeks confirmed it was doing him some good. It didn't matter whether Vorador believed the old prophesy or not, it was only important that Janos heard it from someone else, rather than always trying to convince himself. "And when he does," Vorador continued, "whatever you decide to do, come and see me first."

Janos smiled knowingly, and nodded.

As the thunder and lightning subsided, and the rivers of Nosgoth swelled, the air became fresh. Vorador finally departed the next morning as birds began their dawn chorus. Janos watched the rise of the sun from his balcony, something he hadn't done for as long as he could remember. His faith was reaffirmed; there were questions he would never be able to answer, not until he stood before God Himself, but it didn't concern him now. He would endure for Vorador's sake, if nothing else. There would be difficult times ahead with the Sarafan, he knew, but with God's grace, he would fall no more into doubt and fear.

The storm was over, and Janos felt reborn.


End file.
